yiling matriarch (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
marginalia) wrote2006-01-03 09:42 am
marginalia) wrote2006-01-03 09:42 am
Entry tags:
[repost] fic: from winter's sleep to start, william/edward
(reposting because i am anal about my lj memories. when the fucking feature is available.)
Title: From Winter's Sleep To Start
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
marginalia
Fandom & Pairing: A Knight's Tale, William/Edward, the Black Prince.
Archive: .: marginalia: fiction archive :., yuletide treasure.
Warnings: RPS. *falls over laughing*
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
yuletide. Yet again a year where I only knew one of the fandoms, and of course it was a fandom -and- a character I threw in on a lark. Now I know better. Thanks to starfishchick as always for the beta and the love. Any and all remaining issues, mistakes, and abrupt endings are mine and mine alone. Title from Chaucer, cut text from "The Romance of the Rose".
There is a kiss; there are stars, a dizzying height. A height from which to fall, a happily ever after existing for the length of the kiss and no longer. The kiss is so rarely the end.
::
When Edward declared William's title beyond contestation, it was clear that he had never encountered the will of Jocelyn's father. There was love (infatuation) and there was a new champion (changed stars dancing), but there also existed a fine business agreement with Adhemar, commitments to honor, and, though such a thing was only whispered beyond the hearing of the Black Prince, a certain doubt as to the veracity of the bloodline. There was no doubt as to which of the suitors brought the greatest amount of property; half a season of tournaments was less than nothing compared to what the Count could offer, and in time it grew clear that Jocelyn, arrow though she may be, did not fly true. She returned notes, refused emissaries, and finally appeared on the arm of Adhemar.
"She had no choice," William said, his face stone. His father, hand on Roland's arm, said only that there had never been depth to Jocelyn's voice. Wat looked puzzled and Kate smiled.
Geoffrey wondered aloud if it was impossible to change the stars and not be burned.
::
They watched him, subsuming the mind and heart and living only in the body. The new season would bring more prizes – and glory – to be won, horses trained, armor fitted, and a new squire, Kate's young brother, nipping at his heels. Men and women who depended on him, and even more, whom he depended upon, moving on from a life crushed beneath fallen lady and pedestal.
"For whom will you win now?" Kate asked.
"For my stomach," suggested Wat.
"I think Will has more than defended the honor of your stomach," said Geoffrey. "Perhaps he will attempt something novel and win for his own name."
William shifted on the bench. "My name has been returned to me. I must do well by it."
::
He had fought and won on anger, on love, on hunger, but none of these could be enough anymore, not for truly spectacular success. He worked at the sword, at new movements afforded by Kate's armor, at improved aim in the joust, and developed skill in other events. The winter moved in ice around him, chill and damp fended off by bright lights and ale of an evening, by laughter and bawdy songs.
As the season melted away into never-ending mud and plaintive hope for green, William emerged, leaner, more precise, scar tissue knitting him together inside and out. "You know," he said to Roland one night, "I don't think she ever meant to have me."
Roland watched him for a moment. "She couldn't let herself truly think of what she could never have."
Unbidden, a face. Kind brown eyes in supplication, in one moment asking for mercy, in another giving it. William shook the vision away. "There is a limit, I suppose, on just how much one can change the stars."
::
With spring came calls to tournament, knights and squires traveling out from England, nomads seeking glory away from the field of war. Geoffrey stayed behind with Phillipa, a small one on the way, and the new herald to do the presentation as William scanned the lists, seeking he knew not what. Enemy or friend, perhaps, but none appeared, and he moved off towards their camp vaguely dissatisfied.
As the tournament began, challengers with names or talent previously unknown drew William's attention to competition. There were prizes to be won and new techniques to be plundered, and yet there was a certain emptiness in the fight and the win.
::
William was very near to denying the name he had sought in the lists, when the emblem appeared at the next tournament. There were rumblings that the knight (though his name was not Colville) was royalty, and the politics and plotting of the encampment increased several-fold. William sent the herald in search of information and wished, not for the first time, that Geoff had remained with them. The replacement was perhaps more discreet, but nowhere near as clever.
He excused his own curiosity with the assertion that he owed Edward a great debt and that he could not bear being beholden to anyone, even the Black Prince. The claim did not hold, however, when the herald whispered, "They fear it is him, but nothing can be proven" before a match involving the mysterious new minor noble. William's breath stuck in his throat as he edged out to watch the match. An early round, it was an easy victory for Edward, never cruel, nodding to his competitor, then removing his helmet and dismounting. He spotted William, smiled, and raised his hand briefly, before returning to the ritual of the post-match.
::
Throughout the tournament, each often saw the other lurking around the grounds, and in later rounds of the joust, they began watching together, discussing finer points of the competition, trading gossip gleaned from respective squires, and evaluating trends and skill.
"None of them are a true threat," Edward said.
"And they know it," William said. "They watch you, however. And you too are always watching."
"Astute," Edward smiled. "I am seeking those who look at the competition before they look at the prize. Among other things."
"Are you finding what you seek?"
"Very much so."
"It astonishes me that no one recognizes you beyond vague questioning."
"You did not, at first," Edward pointed out. "They all know who I am and yet they know nothing at all. Even you were thwarted at first by the mask of Colville."
"Not any longer." William gazed far beyond the field.
"Not any longer," Edward agreed.
::
They met in the final joust, as was perhaps fated. It was a clean yet intense match, and William's victory was close, yet hard-won. Edward's smile was brilliant as he hugged him, brief and fierce. "Well played, very well played indeed."
In the feasting, they each had a place at the high table, heavy food, fine wine, and beautiful noblewomen to dance with. As they passed on the floor, Edward's hand skimmed the front of William's tunic. "Roland has outdone himself tonight."
"I shall be sure to tell him so."
::
As the dancing wound down, William edged out to the terrace for the air, and was not surprised to find Edward there, looking up into the night.
"Of what are you thinking?"
"Of returning to the front," Edward said. "I would like you by my side, but I will not allow my desire to become obligation."
"There is no question of obligation, but, powerful though your desire is," William's eyes sparkled, though his face was schooled sober, "it is not that which will see me at the front. Contest is a game, and I can do well elsewhere. What does success mean here?"
"Everything, and nothing at all. Come."
::
No sluggards of the night they took to the field together, prince and knight, an ever after promised only until the clang of sword and armor began.
Title: From Winter's Sleep To Start
Author:
marginaliaFandom & Pairing: A Knight's Tale, William/Edward, the Black Prince.
Archive: .: marginalia: fiction archive :., yuletide treasure.
Warnings: RPS. *falls over laughing*
Notes: For
yuletide. Yet again a year where I only knew one of the fandoms, and of course it was a fandom -and- a character I threw in on a lark. Now I know better. Thanks to starfishchick as always for the beta and the love. Any and all remaining issues, mistakes, and abrupt endings are mine and mine alone. Title from Chaucer, cut text from "The Romance of the Rose". There is a kiss; there are stars, a dizzying height. A height from which to fall, a happily ever after existing for the length of the kiss and no longer. The kiss is so rarely the end.
::
When Edward declared William's title beyond contestation, it was clear that he had never encountered the will of Jocelyn's father. There was love (infatuation) and there was a new champion (changed stars dancing), but there also existed a fine business agreement with Adhemar, commitments to honor, and, though such a thing was only whispered beyond the hearing of the Black Prince, a certain doubt as to the veracity of the bloodline. There was no doubt as to which of the suitors brought the greatest amount of property; half a season of tournaments was less than nothing compared to what the Count could offer, and in time it grew clear that Jocelyn, arrow though she may be, did not fly true. She returned notes, refused emissaries, and finally appeared on the arm of Adhemar.
"She had no choice," William said, his face stone. His father, hand on Roland's arm, said only that there had never been depth to Jocelyn's voice. Wat looked puzzled and Kate smiled.
Geoffrey wondered aloud if it was impossible to change the stars and not be burned.
::
They watched him, subsuming the mind and heart and living only in the body. The new season would bring more prizes – and glory – to be won, horses trained, armor fitted, and a new squire, Kate's young brother, nipping at his heels. Men and women who depended on him, and even more, whom he depended upon, moving on from a life crushed beneath fallen lady and pedestal.
"For whom will you win now?" Kate asked.
"For my stomach," suggested Wat.
"I think Will has more than defended the honor of your stomach," said Geoffrey. "Perhaps he will attempt something novel and win for his own name."
William shifted on the bench. "My name has been returned to me. I must do well by it."
::
He had fought and won on anger, on love, on hunger, but none of these could be enough anymore, not for truly spectacular success. He worked at the sword, at new movements afforded by Kate's armor, at improved aim in the joust, and developed skill in other events. The winter moved in ice around him, chill and damp fended off by bright lights and ale of an evening, by laughter and bawdy songs.
As the season melted away into never-ending mud and plaintive hope for green, William emerged, leaner, more precise, scar tissue knitting him together inside and out. "You know," he said to Roland one night, "I don't think she ever meant to have me."
Roland watched him for a moment. "She couldn't let herself truly think of what she could never have."
Unbidden, a face. Kind brown eyes in supplication, in one moment asking for mercy, in another giving it. William shook the vision away. "There is a limit, I suppose, on just how much one can change the stars."
::
With spring came calls to tournament, knights and squires traveling out from England, nomads seeking glory away from the field of war. Geoffrey stayed behind with Phillipa, a small one on the way, and the new herald to do the presentation as William scanned the lists, seeking he knew not what. Enemy or friend, perhaps, but none appeared, and he moved off towards their camp vaguely dissatisfied.
As the tournament began, challengers with names or talent previously unknown drew William's attention to competition. There were prizes to be won and new techniques to be plundered, and yet there was a certain emptiness in the fight and the win.
::
William was very near to denying the name he had sought in the lists, when the emblem appeared at the next tournament. There were rumblings that the knight (though his name was not Colville) was royalty, and the politics and plotting of the encampment increased several-fold. William sent the herald in search of information and wished, not for the first time, that Geoff had remained with them. The replacement was perhaps more discreet, but nowhere near as clever.
He excused his own curiosity with the assertion that he owed Edward a great debt and that he could not bear being beholden to anyone, even the Black Prince. The claim did not hold, however, when the herald whispered, "They fear it is him, but nothing can be proven" before a match involving the mysterious new minor noble. William's breath stuck in his throat as he edged out to watch the match. An early round, it was an easy victory for Edward, never cruel, nodding to his competitor, then removing his helmet and dismounting. He spotted William, smiled, and raised his hand briefly, before returning to the ritual of the post-match.
::
Throughout the tournament, each often saw the other lurking around the grounds, and in later rounds of the joust, they began watching together, discussing finer points of the competition, trading gossip gleaned from respective squires, and evaluating trends and skill.
"None of them are a true threat," Edward said.
"And they know it," William said. "They watch you, however. And you too are always watching."
"Astute," Edward smiled. "I am seeking those who look at the competition before they look at the prize. Among other things."
"Are you finding what you seek?"
"Very much so."
"It astonishes me that no one recognizes you beyond vague questioning."
"You did not, at first," Edward pointed out. "They all know who I am and yet they know nothing at all. Even you were thwarted at first by the mask of Colville."
"Not any longer." William gazed far beyond the field.
"Not any longer," Edward agreed.
::
They met in the final joust, as was perhaps fated. It was a clean yet intense match, and William's victory was close, yet hard-won. Edward's smile was brilliant as he hugged him, brief and fierce. "Well played, very well played indeed."
In the feasting, they each had a place at the high table, heavy food, fine wine, and beautiful noblewomen to dance with. As they passed on the floor, Edward's hand skimmed the front of William's tunic. "Roland has outdone himself tonight."
"I shall be sure to tell him so."
::
As the dancing wound down, William edged out to the terrace for the air, and was not surprised to find Edward there, looking up into the night.
"Of what are you thinking?"
"Of returning to the front," Edward said. "I would like you by my side, but I will not allow my desire to become obligation."
"There is no question of obligation, but, powerful though your desire is," William's eyes sparkled, though his face was schooled sober, "it is not that which will see me at the front. Contest is a game, and I can do well elsewhere. What does success mean here?"
"Everything, and nothing at all. Come."
::
No sluggards of the night they took to the field together, prince and knight, an ever after promised only until the clang of sword and armor began.
no subject
oooh. nicely written.
not that i read fanfic or anything
harrumph ahem... ;)
no subject
no subject
Third section, first paragraph, take out that 'were'.
no subject